


(Not an) Egg Baby

by the_ragnarok



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Babysitting, Fae & Fairies, First Time, Kid Fic, M/M, Male Lactation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Changelings are an old myth," Deaton says, tinny through Stiles' phone. Derek can hear him over the-- the not-a-baby's squalling, just barely. "They take the place of human babies to drink their mothers' milk."</p>
<p>"We're kind of short on mothers right now," Derek snaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not an) Egg Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [limenitis_arthemis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limenitis_arthemis/gifts).



> Belated-as-fuck, omg, AO3 auction story for incredibly kind and patient limenitis_arthemis, who waited more than a year for this and then didn't even get the story I originally promised. Sorry! 
> 
> Beta'd with lightning speed by authocracy. 
> 
> This story mostly takes place in a vague post-season-2 AU where LALALA EVERYTHING IS FINE AND EVERYONE IS ALIVE I CAN’T HEAR YOU but it’s mostly just Stiles and Derek anyway so you can only tell by the relative lack of PTSD on the parts of everyone involved.

Derek misses his Camaro. He misses the Toyota, too. Right now, he's missing every vehicle he's ever driven that wasn't Stiles' death-trap Jeep, and the Jeep itself isn't even the real problem. The problem is Stiles' music choices (Lady Gaga, _why_ ), Stiles' inability to stop the car smoothly so that every time they get to a stop sign Derek is jerked forward in his seat, Stiles' long fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, tapping absent rhythms and Derek can't even tell himself he'll crash the car if he doesn't stop staring.

It's making him irritable. Not that his mood was great to begin with. “Fucking Fae,” he mutters under his breath.

"I don't know,” says Stiles, who lives to be contrary. “Actually it could be kind of cool, depending what kind of--”

He's cut off by a sudden, incredibly loud noise. Good thing Derek isn't driving, because he'd have wrapped the car around a telephone pole when the unholy shrieking from the backseat started.

It's almost, but not quite, like a baby crying, with a mechanical overtone that makes Derek's teeth grind together.

Stiles just sighs, rubs at his face and pulls into a bus stop.

"We're kind of in a hurry," Derek says, glaring as Stiles unbuckles his belt. "It's illegal to stop here," he adds when Stiles ignores him.

"Shut up." Stiles twists back in his seat. Derek looks away in time to get no more than a glimpse of pale stomach. By the sound of it, Stiles is rooting through his backpack, curses rising in volume to almost match the crying until Stiles yells "A-ha!" and the noise stops.

"Here, hold this." Stiles thrusts what looks like a baby doll at Derek. Holding it by the ankle, Derek notes. He takes it away from Stiles before it can drop on the floor and start that godawful screaming again. "Sorry, okay, but it's a project for health class and I'm _not_ failing that. I can deal with injuries and psychological trauma, but if I one day have to tell a prospective sex partner that I _flunked sex ed_ because of supernatural shenanigans, I will turn into a supervillain and destroy Beacon Hills."

Derek ignores Stiles, examining the baby doll. There's a plastic bottle tied to its hand with a shoelace; presumably the idea is to bring the bottle to the doll's mouth. The doll itself is kind of creepy looking, with glassy brown eyes and holes around its head. "In my day we just had eggs," Derek says. His had gone rotten.

Stiles snorts. "Technology marches on. Or maybe just Beacon High's budget, I guess."

~~

The clearing's already occupied when they reach it. Derek gives Stiles a dark look that is blithely ignored as Stiles hops out of the jeep, only to pause, blink and say, "Whoa."

Not the way Derek would've put it, but Stiles has a point. The entire clearing has gone... 

"Is that _glitter_?" Stiles says in a tone halfway between terror and hysteric glee. 

A voice like a choir of buzzing insects says, "The woods acknowledge our presence," and Stiles almost falls over himself trying to face the person who was awaiting them. Derek, who was actually watching that person all along (and not looking at Stiles' wide eyes, the curve of his lip, not at all), suppresses a snort.

The person they came here to meet is tall and thin, with scaly-looking skin. They blink at Derek, and blink again with a different set of eyelids. "You wished to see us?" they say.

Derek really didn't, but being impolite to Fae is rarely a good idea. "You're in our territory," he say, matter-of-fact. "We'd like you to leave." He catches Stiles' frantic expression from the corner of his eye and adds a belated, "please."

The fae hums thoughtfully. "You want us gone."

"Not _gone_ , exactly," Stiles hedges. "Just maybe less here?"

"It's good to want things," the fae continues, like Stiles hasn't spoken at all. "We also want. We long for sunlight, when winter is long, and sweet nectar, and wine. And milk, warm and sweet from the breast." The fae turns something like a smile at them. Black things crawl at its edges. "Very well."

The fae vanishes. The clearing around them is still glittery. Derek is about to turn to Stiles and ask what the fuck just happened when the sound of screaming comes from the jeep.

"Fuck's sake," Stiles snaps, "not now."

Derek goes very, very still. The sound is different now, not mechanical at all, and frantic. He can't remember crossing the short distance to the car, can't remember opening the door, isn't sure how but suddenly he's got his hands full of warm, crying, _human_ baby.

"Seriously?" Stiles asks faintly. 

The baby takes the opportunity to piss down Derek's shirt. Derek flinches and reflexively holds the baby away at arms' length.

Stiles is right next to him a moment later. "Seriously?" he asks again. “You're how old and you don't know how to hold a baby?” Stiles wrangles the red squirming bundle away from Derek, holding it against his chest. 

"Says the person who held it by the _ankle_ ,” Derek says pointedly.

“Yeah, when it was a _doll_! Support his head, Christ, it's not rocket science, didn't you have--” Just like that he falls silent, jerking his gaze away from Derek and fixing it on the baby.

Whatever Stiles was about to say obviously isn't going to come out, so Derek sighs and pulls his phone out. At least the baby seems to have calmed down a little.

~~

"Changelings are an old myth," Deaton says, tinny through Stiles' phone. Derek can hear him over the-- the not-a-baby's squalling, just barely. "They take the place of human babies to drink their mothers' milk."

"We're kind of short on mothers right now," Derek snaps. 

He can practically hear Deaton shrugging over the phone. "When the Fae try to cut a deal, they usually make certain the other party can pay." Then the conversation cuts off.

Derek opens his mouth - to curse or tell Stiles what Deaton said, he's not sure - but he turns around and all words escape him. Stiles himself doesn't appear to have noticed himself, busy attempting lullabies.

"Hush little crapper, don't you scream,” Stiles croons, “Papa gonna get you a Netflix stream,” and all the while a little circle of wetness spreads on the side of his shirt not obscured by the baby.

Derek drops his phone.

~~

Stiles is surprisingly laid back about his newfound milk production ability.

"It's actually pretty neat,” he says, adjusting the changeling's head. His fingers curl around the back of its tiny skull, long and certain. Stiles' other nipple is puffy. “Like, Miracle of Life and all that.”

"At least it's not crying anymore,” Derek says and heads back to the car.

The same magic that replaced the baby doll with the changeling replaced Stiles' bookbag with a big blue-and-white bag with a baffling number of pockets, all full of clothes and diapers. Small graces.

("Yeah, couldn't that asshole have gotten us a car seat for the baby, too?” Stiles said, unimpressed, struggling to lift his shirt with one hand while holding the squirming thing in the other. “I had my English homework in that bag. What a dick.”

"Don't call it a baby,” Derek said and looked away.)

Derek pulls out a diaper, holding it gingerly and eyeing the changeling still attached to Stiles' chest. “You might want to get a diaper on it before it pisses all over you, too.”

"Whatever,” Stiles says. “It'll come out in the wash.” His nipple emerges from the changeling's mouth with a wet _pop_. It's shiny-wet. A white droplet gathers and trickles down Stiles' chest as Stiles moves the changeling to nurse from the other side.

Derek only realizes Stiles is still talking because his tone changes to something vaguely alarmed. “What?” Derek says, struggling for words that aren't _let me, come here, I want_.

"You're bleeding,” Stiles says. “Your claws--”

They're poking into the surface of Derek's palms. Whatever. The wounds are healed almost before Derek shifts them back into ordinary fingernails.

~~

"My dad is _not_ going to be happy,” Stiles says. He keeps darting freaked-out looks at Derek, at the baby-lookalike held in Derek's lap, and won't let the car go any faster than a crawl.

"I don't know,” Derek says. “He looks like he'll want grandkids someday. Like, say, by the time we get to your house.”

Stiles slows the car down further, scowling at the road. “Ha fucking ha. I don't see why you couldn't run to the store to get a freaking car seat.”

The changeling squirms in Derek's grip. “Why didn't you go yourself if you care so much?”

"What, and leave you alone with the baby?” Stiles snorts. “ _Great_ idea.”

"I don't buy baby things.” Before Stiles can turn a smug expression on him, Derek adds, “ _Not_ that this is a baby. Just watch the road, okay?” He looks out the window pointedly. “The completely empty road.”

"There might be deer,” Stiles mutters darkly. “Fucking deer.”

~~

Stiles fishes his keys out of his pocket, takes a breath and plasters an eerie fake smile on his face. “Dad!” he says as he marches inside.

(Derek did think to suggest waiting till later, maybe, when the Sheriff would be back to work and the house would be empty. But then he thought about spending all that time with Stiles, _alone_ , while Stiles is still wearing the wet shirt, and the words dried up before he could form them.)

"I can explain,” Stiles starts saying as the Sheriff walks towards them, eyebrows raised.

"Explain why you have a screaming baby doll?” the Sheriff says. “Or why Derek is here?”

Stiles blinks. Derek can practically hear his brain shifting gears. “Um. The doll is for health class,” he says. “Derek's helping me-- I mean, I'm helping him. With a Fae problem.”

The Sheriff gets kind of a pinched look, but he nods, and Derek is grateful that he _knows_. Lying to the Sheriff always felt both futile and just plain _wrong_ in a way that Derek's not comfortable examining.

The not-a-baby (though clearly not a doll, either, what the hell) sort of turns around, its wails wavering as it takes in its new surrounding. It stares at the Sheriff and, tentatively, says, “Goo?”

Something softens in the Sheriff's expression. He takes the changeling from Derek, holding him-- _it_ with practiced ease. “In my days we had an egg,” he muses. “Got an A+ on mine.” Of course he did. 

~~

"It's some sort of glamour,” Stiles says. They're upstairs in his room, the changeling has a mouthful of nipple to cut off the screaming, and Derek is glaring at Stiles' computer screen like it has all the answers. “I mean, it has to be. My dad's like, a detective, he can tell a baby from a doll.” He rolls his eyes before Derek can cut in. “Yeah, changeling, whatever. You get the point.”

Derek scrolls down, not really seeing the text. “Question is, how do we get rid of it?”

Stiles hum. “You know, I don't really see the need?” 

Derek, foolishly, looks at him. Stiles is sitting on his bed cross-legged, one knee propping up the changeling's head. His shirt is off, and Derek's eyes fasten on to the dark trail of hair leading into his pants. There's a damp patch above Stiles' belly button where dripping milk pooled.

Oblivious to Derek's pain, Stiles says, “I mean, the baby seems okay now.” The changeling, possibly just to chime in, twists its head and grunts. Stiles winces and adjusts his position until the noisy sucking resumes. “And other people don't notice he's there, so whatever, I'll just feed him for a while. The Fae will have what they want, they'll go, everybody's happy.”

"It never works out like that,” Derek says.

Stiles grimaces. Whether at Derek's words or at the way the changeling is pulling at his nipple, skin taut before the changeling snaps off it with a wail, Derek can't say.

~~

"Okay,” Stiles says. “I lied.”

"Grmph,” Derek says into the phone. He blinks sleep out of his eyes. Dust motes flicker in a ray of moonlight. Derek mentally adds _clean the loft_ to his to-do list and asks, “What?”

"I can't do this.” There's crying in the background, petering down for a moment before resuming with an added hysterical edge. “He won't fucking _settle_ already, I try feeding him and he won't take it, my nipples feel like they were _mauled by velociraptors_.”

"If I come by,” Derek says in a fit of despair, “will you stop talking about your nipples?”

"Maybe,” Stiles says sulkily. 

It's not much, but Derek's willing to take it.

~~

When Derek hops in through Stiles' open bedroom window, he has to fight the urge to cover his ears. Christ, the changeling is _loud_. Stiles doesn't even say anything, just gives Derek this beseeching look like Derek knows what the hell to do.

Then Stiles gets up, says, “Oh my God, thank you,” plonks the changeling in Derek's arms and bolts outside the door.

Maybe it's the surprise of being moved around, but the changeling is actually quiet, blinking up at Derek. Its head lolls dangerously before Derek remembers to support it; Derek holds the thing slightly more securely and tries not to freak out too much. 

Of course, half a minute later the screaming resumes, and Derek is too distracted by the pain in his ears to be too concerned.

By the time Stiles is back, Derek has pondered cutting off his ears, concluded it wouldn't help, and is debating the merits of sticking his head under Stiles' pillow. “Dude, thank you,” Stiles says again, fervent and grateful. “I needed to pee _so bad_ , you have no idea, he's been screaming for _hours_.”

He takes the changeling back. The changeling's scream peters down to a choked cough, starting to rise again before Stiles shoves it unceremoniously against his nipple. This time there's no mistaking Stiles' wince, even without his earlier comments about mauling. 

Derek opens his mouth to say something. Then he catches the faint scent of blood. His fingers twitch, and it takes conscious effort to keep the claws in. “Don't tell me it's a vampire, too.”

Stiles laughs. Given the circles under his eyes, Derek would've expected the sound to be more bitter than it is. “Naw, man. My freaking nipples are bleeding. Apparently it's normal.”

"Normal,” Derek repeats, faintly. He snags Stiles' desk chair and sits down. Stiles seems more at ease now, holding the not-a-baby in place like he's done it a thousand times. “Normal like a teenage boy breastfeeding.”

"Normal like normal breastfeeding, man.” Stiles tries to shrug and is hampered by the changeling's grip, turning the motion into an odd wiggle halfway through. “It's hardcore. Apparently after a week or so your nipples get used to it and it stops hurting? This is just, like. Boot camp for breasts.” He cracks a smile. “Boob camp!”

"Why,” Derek mutters, quiet and despairing.

"God hates us,” Stiles informs him. “Go downstairs and get me some Gatorade, okay? I feel like I'm turning into a mummy, no pun intended. Hydrate me before I turn into a desiccated shell of my former self.”

"I should be so lucky,” Derek says on his way downstairs to do exactly what Stiles asks.

~~

The sheriff's not home. Probably on nightshift since glamour or no, there's no way the screaming could've gone on for as long as it did without some pointed questions from Stilinski the elder. It's a pity, since it means nobody but Derek can bring Stiles drinks and snacks and hold the changeling while Stiles dashes to the bathroom.

It's also pretty good in that it means nobody is there to see Derek staring at Stiles. Stiles himself is distracted, and the changeling is pretty focused on getting its next meal.

It's not Derek's fault that Stiles is shirtless, that his nipples are puffy and red and wet. Still makes him want to cringe at himself, because – really? Stiles' cranky expression, the sharp line of his mouth and the tense set of his shoulders, all of them should mark an uncrossable line. There shouldn't be anything about this Derek wants.

Either teenage libido is catching or Derek is just that gone on Stiles, though, because there's nothing about this Derek _doesn't_ want.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, tired and miserable and in pain as the changeling latches on yet again. “They never showed how much this shit fucking hurts on TV.”

Derek doesn't think, doesn't let himself, just puts his hand on Stiles' flank and pulls the pain away. There's a sensation like a bite when he catches the first edge of hurt, unpleasant and satisfying all at once. 

Stiles stiffens, then breathes out a long, low sigh, “ _Oh_.” Derek stays where he is and doesn't bury his face in Stiles' soft, exposed stomach.

~~

"Oh my God,” Stiles says, roughly a hundred years later. 

Sun's coming through the windows. Derek can barely pry his eyes open, and given that the interminable screaming has petered off, he doesn't understand why Stiles felt the need to poke him.

Then he runs that thought through again, and looks.

The baby's asleep in Stiles' lap, one arm flung dramatically ahead, a trail of milky drool running down his chin. His mouth is pressed in a pout. Short, nearly invisible eyelashes fan against Stiles' thigh. Against Stiles' pale, freckled thigh, right next to the hem of Stiles' ratty boxers.

In a last-ditch effort to distract himself, Derek says, “He almost looks sweet like that.”

Stiles makes an odd noise that Derek manages to put back together into a quickly-smothered triumphant cry. 

Derek raises an eyebrow. “What.”

"You didn't call him _it_ ,” Stiles crows. But he does it quietly, and at this time, Derek's going to count his blessings and not ask for anything more.

~~

Stiles texts him from school the next day: _brstfeeding in the middle of geometry, nobody noticed. freaky._ It's followed by, _cept lydia.deduced bby is rl. shes awsum._

Derek, who'd just managed to focus back on the novel he's reading, puts it face down and groans. He really, really did not need that mental image.

He can't help but pick at it, though, wonder if Stiles pushed up his shirt right there in the middle of the class, bold and brazen like someone can only be when they know nobody will look. Or if he turned to the side, all furtive, smiling that teeth-baring smile Stiles does when he likes to pretend nothing is out of the ordinary.

If there were milk stains on his shirt after, round wet spots where the fabric stuck right to Stiles' chest, his nipples showing pert and hard under damp, dark cloth.

Derek closes his eyes, bids a mental fairwell to decency, and shoves his hand inside his pants. It's just self-defense at this point; if the universe is going to shove Stiles at him, and then make it so that Stiles' _nipples_ are a regular topic of conversation between them, Derek can do nothing beyond keeping his shameful obsession secret and contained.

Like this, though, in private, with no one to see.... Derek grits his teeth and gives himself free rein, imagining Stiles with that fond, tired look in his eyes, his broad hands pulling Derek closer. Imagines Stiles' stiff nipples under his tongue and Stiles' stiff cock against his hip, Stiles twisting and writhing and smiling into Derek's skin.

It's honestly not Derek's intention to imagine Stiles' nipples sensitive and puffy, _leaking_ , the skin around them gone tender and plush, with a give to it that Stiles' skinny frame wouldn't usually allow. But it's there in his mind all the same, gloriously vivid, and it's to that image that Derek comes, going off in his underwear because he didn't even have the time or forethought to take his pants off.

Derek stares bleakly up at the ceiling until his cellphone beeps again. Again, it's Stiles. _apprntly bb hidin glamor doesnt extend to diaper changes. sux._

~~

For about five minutes, Derek debates against going to Stiles' house after school lets out. Stiles has proven extremely capable of calling if he needs Derek around. The very fact that Derek knows Stiles' schedule and the drive to his house well enough to know when Stiles will be home on any given day means that Derek is too close and should stay away.

In the end, common sense gives in to that persistent, inevitable draw that pulls Derek to Stiles. Like the tide, with an obnoxious teenager instead of the moon.

Doesn't help that as Derek climbs in through the window Stiles smiles at him, blurry around the edges, like he's too tired to keep his sarcasm honed. Only when Stiles says, “Look at him,” softly, “he's actually kind of adorable like this, huh?” does Derek realize the changeling is fast asleep.

He-- it-- _he_ does, actually. It's screwing with Derek's brain. “Changelings,” Derek says with a half-shrug. It's the best he can do.

"I don't know, I think I read something,” Stiles starts, and the changeling's eyes slit open. “Damn. Spoke too soon.” With a sigh and a smooth motion of his arm, Stiles hefts the changeling up against his chest. If Derek were a good person, he'd look away.

Derek knows he's not. He looks.

The baby latches on to Stiles' nipple, sucking it in, then spits it out again. Derek steels himself, waiting for the screaming to commence, but.

"Is he smiling?” Derek says.

Stiles is smiling back. It's not doing great things for Derek's composure. “Yeah, turns out Raptor's a pretty happy little guy when his food's on time.”

"You named the baby,” Derek says. On second thought he adds, “You named the baby _Raptor_.”

"Yeah, you have a problem with that?” Stiles gives Derek his best unimpressed glare, which melts into snorts of laughter when the baby goes _Ah!_. “C'mon, it's an awesome name.”

"Yeah, for a comic book villain,” Derek mutters. Stiles is ignoring him in favor of bending his face to the changeling's and talking in a tone that seems awfully close to baby-talk, though, and even Derek can pick his battles. Some of the time.

Downstairs, the door is creaking, and Derek takes it as his cue to go. Stiles waves him off absent-mindedly. The changeling's started fussing again, so Stiles has him lying belly-down on Stiles' arm, the baby's face nestled in the crook of Stiles' elbow, and Derek feels like he's had enough.

He flings himself out the window, wincing when he hits the ground hard enough to sprain his ankle. It heals almost immediately, but it still aches. At least it's a distraction.

Above him, in Stiles' bedroom, Derek can hear the changeling cooing, Stiles delightedly baby-talking at him. “Who's a good little faery creature drinking the milk of honest humans? You are! Yes, you are!”

Something's wrong. Derek doesn't quite know what, but Stiles' voice and the baby's gurgling fold together into a layer of noise that unsettles Derek over and over again until he's out of range. 

~~

It's mid-morning, not a time Derek is used to spending in Stiles' bedroom. It's the weekend, though, and Derek spent the entire night in his own apartment tossing and turning, trying to quiet down the malformed uncertainty squirming in him and failing miserably. 

For once, Stiles seems content to let Derek do the majority of the research work. Derek doesn't know why they don't do it more often; it's not like Stiles is the only one who knows how to read. And this way Derek has something to do beside try to keep his eyes on Stiles' face and off his-- _firmly_ on Stiles' face.

That's not without its own perils, though. Stiles is smiling, the maniacal little curve his mouth gets when he's pleased with himself. Stiles' head is bent down, to look at the changeling at it feeds, curled around it with a protectiveness that seems instinctive. His eyes are--

Looking right back at Derek. Shit.

Before Stiles can ask, Derek blurts, “It's unnatural.” 

"Excuse you, I thought we agreed to call the baby a he.” Stiles scowls. ”And just because _he_ is unnatural doesn't mean he doesn't need love!” 

Derek blinks and slowly says, “I'm not talking about the-- changeling. Baby. Whatever. I'm talking about you.”

Stiles, a teenage boy tenderly breastfeeding a tiny baby, frowns and says, “What do you mean?”

"Is this what passes for normal these days?” Derek demands. “When I was in high school, I don't recall liking babies half as much as you do.”

"Oh, well,” Stiles snorts. “When you were in high school you used _eggs_ in health class.” But his lips quirk as he shifts the baby to burp him. “I guess it's a me thing. I've always liked babies. Babies are awesome.”

Derek's most vivid memory containing babies is from when his parents brought Cora home. It'd been late at night and he'd woken up hearing her wail from the driveway. “Never really saw the appeal.”

Stiles is looking at the baby when he says, “My mom used to run a daycare. I helped, when I could. It was nice.”

"It suits you.” The words take Derek by surprise; he didn't mean to say them. 

Judging by Stiles' expression, he wasn't expecting them either. But that expression disappears soon enough. “Less talking,” Stiles says, gesturing with the hand that isn't occupied with a baby. “More research.”

~~

Possibly this is why Derek doesn't do the research more often: he reads for the better part of an hour, until Lydia arrives and gets straight to the root of the problem.

"He's not a changeling,” Lydia says. She's sitting on Stiles' bed, one high-heeled shoe dangling off her foot. 

Derek looks at her. Before he can demand an explanation, Stiles says, “Huh.”

It doesn't sound surprised. It almost sounds... guilty?

"Look at him.” Lydia gestures at the changeling-- baby-- whatever, currently awake and interestedly following Stiles' hand, clutching a small transparent plastic box of multi-faceted dice.

(“Shut up,” Stiles had muttered when Derek first found him brandishing the box at the baby. “It's colorful, he can't swallow it by accident, it rattles and it's not like I have actual baby toys on hand, okay?”)

"What are you hearing?” Lydia asks. “Or rather, what aren't you hearing?”

Derek nearly strains his ears before realizing Lydia's question was much simpler than that. “It-- he isn't crying.”

Lydia nods, satisfied. “People think the changeling myth came from babies with the colic. Kids who cry on and on for no apparent reason, because the changeling never stops wanting to be fed. Changelings don't do happy.”

The baby, as if on cue, looks Derek in the eye and breaks out in an enormous, toothless grin.

"Okay,” Derek says, discomfited. “So if it's an actual baby, why did the fae give him to us?”

Stiles frowns, looking down at the baby. “More importantly,” he says slowly, “where did the baby come from?”

~~

"We're not bringing Chris Argent into this,” Derek growls. Kind of uselessly, since they are already halfway to the Argent house, but it's the thought that counts.

"This is too big for us,” Stiles says. He's gesturing with one hand as he drives, giving Derek – or rather, the baby in Derek's arms – the occasional worried glance. “This kid has parents somewhere. They probably want him back.”

"Yeah, the lack of screaming must have kept them up at night,” Derek says. He says it quietly, though.

Evidently, not quietly enough, because Stiles' face darkens. “You know what? It probably did.”

~~

They're expecting Chris not to see the baby at first, to see a doll like everybody else has so far. They're not expecting Chris to push Stiles against the door and snarl, “What do you think you're doing? Give me that child right _now_.”

Derek is considering putting the baby down on the couch so he can properly push Argent away from Stiles. Stiles just rolls his eyes and says, “So you know this kid. Excellent,” like he's used to having conversations while people shove him up against hard surfaces.

Which. Well. Maybe Derek's a little bit to blame, here.

"Nobody's letting you handle the baby until you stop handling me,” Stiles says, pointed. He brushes invisible lint off his clothes when Argent reluctantly backs off. “Thank you. Derek?”

As little as Derek likes the apparently-a-baby-after-all, he's not going to just hand over an innocent child to a hunter. Derek hangs on to him, restraining himself from growling.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Chris here knows the baby. And he cares that we have it. Combine this with our usual shitty luck and what does that tell you?”

Derek hunches a little. “That Argent's hunting changelings?” The baby squacks against the tightness of Derek's hold and Derek loosens it quickly, flushing with guilt.

"I thought we've been through this,” Stiles says with an exaggerated sigh. “Smiling, ergo not a changeling. Human baby. That Christ Argent knows. That the Fae gave to us, hinting it's a changeling.” He rolls his eyes at Derek. “It's a hunter baby. Try to keep up.”

The baby's in Argent's arms before Stiles finishes talking. Stiles actually has the audacity to tack a little laugh on the end, say, “Whoa, Derek, I don't think this one knows how to use wolfsbane yet.”

Derek shoves his hands in his pocket. “You can keep it,” he tells Argent.

Stiles, the impossible little brat, actually darts close to Argent and kisses the baby's forehead. The baby coos and tries to grip Stiles' hair; with the current cut, it's almost long enough for the baby to succeed.

For a long moment, Stiles and the baby are smiling at each other, and Derek feels a twinge of something he can't quite name.

Then the baby starts wailing again, and it passes.

~~

"Why did the Fae give you the baby?” Argent asks. He's very intently not looking at Stiles, who is feeding the baby.

Derek is doing the same. “We don't know,” he says. 

"My guess-- _ow_ , Raptor, those are attached,” Stiles says with a wince, “would be a distraction. Something going on with the baby's parents? Maybe they were digging too closely into something the Fae don't want them to mess with. Even hunters would probably drop anything else if their kid was missing.”

"One that young, yes,” Argent says. He looks like he bit into a lemon. Then he looks at Stiles and says, “Did you really name the baby Raptor?”

"Yes, I did,” Stiles says, with a lot of dignity for someone who smells faintly like yogurt. “I stand by the greatness of the name, but that's not the point. What were Raptor's parents working on, then?”

Argent's face goes stony. His silence is pointed enough to stick on a feathered shaft and shoot innocent people with.

"Jeez, don't sprain yourself reaching for the cyanide pill,” Stiles mutters. He waves his hand, the one not supporting the baby's head. “You know what? Just this once, we'll let that slide. Not our territory, we don't care.” He frowns. “Wait. They aren't actually _here_ , are they?”

That much, Argent is apparently willing to give them. He shakes his head. 

Raptor, apparently full for now, turns his face to watch them. Stiles shifts him and pats his back with quick, careful movements. “Fine. So tell them to come here and get their kid.”

Derek clears his throat. “What about the Fae?”

Argent crosses his arms. “Leave that to me. And,” he twitches visibly as he says it, “Raptor's parents.”

Stiles smirks at him. “See, I told you. It's a great name.”

Argent shoos them out after that, along with the baby. “I don't have anything to feed him,” he says. “And I hear breast milk is better for children that young anyway.”

"Hardy har har,” Stiles mutters, but Derek isn't getting the impression that Argent is joking.

They're halfway back to Derek's apartment when Stiles says, “Thanks, man,” just as Raptor is discovering Derek's arm hair and pulling. 

Derek winces and takes a minute to be grateful he waxes his chest. “What for?” he says, once Stiles' words make it through.

Stiles makes a face. “For not disputing me. You know, on the whole,” for a terrifying second he lets go of the wheel to make finger quotes, “'our territory' thing. I know you don't like to share, despite, like. Everything.”

"Put your hands back on the wheel,” Derek says, snippy. “I thought you didn't want to get into an accident.”

Fuck. This is getting out of hand. 

~~

As soon as they reach their destination, Derek hands Stiles the baby and walks away. “I need to clear my head,” he calls when Stiles yells a baffled, “What the fuck, dude?” after him.

"This is your apartment!” Stiles says. Derek doesn't turn back. Stiles knows where the spare key is.

He speeds up as the city fades into the woods. Tree branches snap at his face and sides, a brief, familiar, welcome sting. The wind's on his face. The smells of car exhaust and too many people in too little space make way for the scents of green moss and still water, of sage plants crushed under his feet. 

Years ago, Derek would pick sage for his grandmother, watch her steep it into tea. A few weeks ago, he picked it for Stiles, watched wary from the sidelines as Stiles brewed something that was supposed to “protect and heal a torn land,” whatever that meant. A day or so after that, Derek poured the concoction near the roots of an old juniper tree under Stiles' watchful eye.

He turns back to his apartment. Even as he runs he marshals the words into order in his head, grim about it, knowing they'll come out wrong but willing to take that chance so long as they come out at all. Derek is a lot of things, a coward and a creep sometimes, an asshole usually, but he's not willing to be unfair. Not about this.

~~

"I don't have to share,” Derek says as he enters his apartment. Then he pauses. “Are you letting the baby watch True Blood?”

"One, he's too young to know what it is anyway,” Stiles says, like Derek's going to miss how he jumped and changed the channel the minute Derek walked in. “Two, it's valuable education in the supernatural, which this kid is going to need. Three, since when do you care, and four, where the _fuck_ have you been and what the hell are you talking about?”

"I needed to process,” Derek says, tense.

Stiles blinks at him. Raptor, meanwhile, seems fixated on the screen, pacifier drooping from the corner of his mouth like a gangster with a cigar. “Since when do you process things?”

"I can process,” Derek says.

"Okay, supposing you can. What do you mean, you don't have to share? Are we suddenly back in kindergarten?” Stiles seems to think of what he just said and gives a delicate shudder. “Let's hope not. Those were not the finest years of my life even _without_ the daily mortal peril.”

Derek grits his teeth and resists the urge to tell Stiles to fucking _focus_. “You were. Thanking me.” The words feel bitter on his tongue. “For not contradicting your decision on matters impacting on,” don't say _our_ , “this territory. You didn't need to. It's yours as much as it's mine. You've done enough to defend it.” More than Derek has, it feels like, some days.

Instead of saying something, anything, Stiles just looks up at Derek, all big brown eyes like he's _stunned_.   
"This can't be that much of a surprise to you,” Derek tries.

Raptor starts squirming in Stiles' lap. Stiles keeps staring at Derek, apparently barely noticing the baby's movements except to hold him more securely. Not bothering to pull his shirt down when Raptor's fidgeting shoves it aside to expose a faint hint of happy trail, the jut of Stiles' hipbone where his pants are sagging.

Derek takes an automatic step backwards. 

Stiles' eyes narrow. “See, this right here? Is making me kind of doubt your sincerity. How can you want to share your territory with me when you can barely stand to be in the same room?”

"I don't have a problem being in a room with you,” Derek tries, but he doesn't need wolf senses to hear himself lying. 

Neither does Stiles, who looks perilously close to snapping _Whatever_ and throwing Derek out of his own apartment. Derek wouldn't even blame him; while Stiles apparently bonded with Raptor, he hasn't been sleeping much for the last few days. The fragile skin under Stiles' eyes is dark and bruised looking, his lips dry and chapped.

Maybe Derek has a slightly hard time looking away from Stiles' mouth. Maybe Stiles isn't quite as tired as he seems, because when Derek finally looks up his expression has shifted, softened the way it does when Raptor finally falls asleep and Stiles tucks him in, thinking Derek isn't watching.

Derek is always watching, though. That's the problem.

Or maybe, Derek thinks, dazed, as Stiles gets up and walks towards him with a wicked glint in his eyes, it's not as much of a problem as Derek thought.

Time seems to slow as Stiles approaches. Derek finds himself looking at Raptor, thinking _This is when he starts screaming. Any minute now._ Except the baby seems mostly preoccupied with his own fingers, happy to lie on his back in the middle of Derek's carefully made bed.

Then Stiles is _right there_ , making himself at home in Derek's personal space. He melts against Derek, sinking into him like gravity just shifted directions and also robbed Stiles of his bones. He's warm and Derek feels him _everywhere_ , heart beating fast and steady. Stiles drops his head to lie against Derek's shoulder. His ridiculous eyelashes tickle Derek's neck.

"I wanna kiss you,” Stiles says, voice muffled in Derek's henley, “but that requires _moving_.”

There's no possible way for Derek to reply to this except to sink his fingers into the short hair at Stiles' nape and angle his head. Stiles' mouth is warm, his lips are dry and mobile, his tongue shyly swiping against the corner of Derek's mouth.

If Derek had the air to speak, and if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied, he might have moaned. As it is, all he can do is gather Stiles closer and hope like hell the baby doesn't start screaming.

To say one positive thing about Raptor, he stays quiet. The shrieking that suddenly fills the room is all too adult in tone, matching the cold gun muzzle at Derek's temple.

~~

"I'm guessing you're Raptor's mom?” Stiles says to the woman holding a gun to Derek's head. Her partner is already beside the bed, picking up Raptor and cooing at him.

It's a very hunter-typical cooing, which means a lot of murmured whispers promising to “Kill the nasty monster with fire and silver, yes baby, and you can have his entrails to play with!” but Derek supposes it's the thought that counts.

"He's not a monster!” Stiles yells, even as the mother says, “He can't play with his entrails!” Stiles gives her a tentative smile when she adds, “That's not sanitary.”

"A+ priorities,” Stiles mutters. “Look, you guys, Chris Argent must have called you. Right? So you know we didn't kidnap this baby. He was thrust upon us!” For one terrifying moment, Stiles seems to be considering some pun about _thrusting_ , but to Derek's despairing joy, he gives it up in favor of glaring at the hunters.

The cool metallic pressure on Derek's temple lifts. Derek cautiously turns to see the hunter flicking the safety. She's still glaring at Derek, but he'll take it. “Explain.”

Stiles makes a bunch of abortive hand gestures. “Fucking Fae exchanged my sex-ed pretend baby for your actual baby! I had nothing to do with it!”

The hunters exchange glances. The one nearer Derek drops her backpack on the floor. “I guess that explains this,” she says. 

Derek only recognizes it as Stiles' bookbag when Stiles leaps at it with a joyful, “Yes!” He opens the zipper and pulls out the terrifying baby doll, crowing, “Ha! Guess who's got two thumbs and a passing grade in health class? This guy!” He pauses and stares at the hunters. “Um. You did 'feed' it,” he airquotes, “when it started screaming?”

“Yes,” the guy hunter says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “It was really loud.” Stiles grins. The guy hunter adds, "In my day, we just had an egg.” He and the other hunter share a smile. “Ours hatched into a basilisk.”

"Good times,” Stiles says faintly.

~~

With Raptor bundled in the carseat the hunter pair provided, and their determined expression as they set out to kick Fae ass, Derek feels like he can finally breathe easy.

Or, well. As easy as it gets.

"I almost feel sorry for that Fae,” Stiles says, watching them go from the window. “And I'm gonna miss the little dude, you know?”

A lesser man than Derek would squirm. As it is, he leans against the wall and puts on his best impassive expression. 

Stiles, watching him, grins. “Hey, man, it's cool.” He rests a hand on Derek's shoulder. “I think I actually like kids a lot better when I can hand them off to someone else at the end of the day, you know?”

The warmth of Stiles' hand is seeping through the fabric of Derek's shirt. Every response that Derek carefully drilled into himself over the last couple years screams at him _Abort, abort, run away!_

But Stiles isn't giving Derek room to retreat or run. Stiles, as a matter of fact, is slowly but surely herding Derek towards the bed, moving his hips against Derek's to steer him. “We shouldn't,” Derek says feebly.

"Oh, yeah?” Stiles says. “Why?”

If there was anything defiant or angry in his tone, any hint of the petulant teenager Stiles is, it would be enough to bring Derek back to his senses. Probably. Hopefully. As it is, Stiles just stands there, looking at him, a little curious, still tired. Derek has a sinking, uncomfortable feeling that the most mature person in the room may not be him.

“Thank fuck,” Derek mutters, ignoring Stiles' bewildered response in favor of shoving them both into bed.

Stiles is enthusiastic enough, pushing his own shirt off before moving onto Derek's. Derek lets him, mesmerized into stillness by all the pale skin on display.

Maybe that gives the wrong impression, though, since Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Um. Sorry I'm.” He half-shrugs, raises his hands to his chest, hiding his nipples. “I mean, I get if you think it's kind of gross. Plus they still kinda hurt anyway, so maybe a shirt--”

Derek tunes him out, watches as his hand – seemingly of its own accord – goes to cover Stiles', soaking away pain. It doesn't hurt as much as it did the last time Derek did this, passing through Derek's system and out rapidly.

Under him, Stiles' breathing quickens. He licks his lips and watches Derek through half-closed eyes. “Man, the endorphin rush never gets old.”

Derek kisses him, just a quick peck, because he can't help himself. He wants to say something about watching out for addiction, or maybe about adrenaline junkies, but that means backing away from Stiles' mouth and Derek is just not strong enough.

Stiles opens up for him – not just his mouth, it's a whole-body experience where Stiles' muscles go lax and his long arms and long legs wind around Derek, strong and soft like a silk cocoon. He moves sinuously, rubbing every bit of skin against Derek's.

Derek kisses down Stiles' cheek to his jaw to his throat, lingering there to feel the vibration of Stiles' tiny noises against his lips then down, down to his chest. “I can keep taking pain away,” he says, muffled against Stiles' solar plexus, “can I, I want--”

"Sure.” Stiles laughs, a breathless little thing that Derek feels more than he hears. His thigh shoves against Derek's dick, pressure just where Derek needs it, and he shudders in an attempt to keep from hissing. “Dude. Are you actually into this?”

When Derek tries to withdraw, though, Stiles' hand rests on his nape and keeps him still.

"Dude,” Stiles says again, but his voice is gentle. So is his hand, for all that it won't let Derek move. Tender but unyielding, a paradox of sensation, holding Derek in place so he can't fall apart. “It's okay. I'm not laughing at you, just.” Derek can't see Stiles' gestures but he can feel his muscles moving, can imagine the expressive hand motions. “Do you realize how fucking _weird_ our life is?”

Derek has no idea how to reply to this. But then Stiles' hand on his neck guides Derek to a stiff, puffy nipple, and Derek is spared the need to say anything.

He's careful, still taking pain away, even though there's less of it now. There's no milk coming out at first. Then Stiles pushes him off. 

Before Derek can panic, Stiles says, “No, you need to put some more force into it, like,” and pinches his own nipple, hard.

The jolt of pain courses through Derek at the same time as a spike of arousal so intense it might as well be pain, at Stiles' strong fingers, at the sluggish welling of white fluid on Stiles' nipple. Unable to think, unable to move away, Derek bows his head and sucks.

It's sweet, with a little after taste that says _skin_ \- sweat, bitter remnants of soap, traces of laundry detergent. But mostly just Stiles' scent, layered and human and complex, things he's eaten, places he's been, people he's met.

He smells a lot like Derek. Derek's hips drive forward at the thought helplessly, and Stiles gives another breathless laugh and thrusts right back at Derek. “Take my pants off,” he says, “fuck, I know teenagers are allowed to get off in their pants but I don't actually want to.”

With the actual verbal order, it's not hard to back off, to remove Stiles' pants and then his own. To push Stiles' underwear down and watch his cock stand up, red and wet at the tip.

Derek doesn't realize he's moving until he's mouthing Stiles' dick, licking at the precome, sucking softly at the head. 

The noise Stiles makes is almost inhuman but his hand is still careful at the back of Derek's head. 

Too careful. Derek closes his eyes. “Give it to me,” he says, voice gone raspy. “Let me have it.”

He glances upwards and the look in Stiles' eyes is knowing. His hand tightens over Derek's nape, his free hand's fingers tracing Derek's lower lip. “Open up,” Stiles says, low, and Derek does.

Stiles is shaking when Derek swallows around him, holding himself so carefully to keep from choking Derek. It's unnecessary, but Derek appreciates it. Derek keeps his eyes open. As much as he wants to close them, he wants to watch Stiles more, the tightening of his abs as he struggles not to thrust, the wet trail leading down from his nipples.

He reaches a hand up to Stiles' nipple (not to pinch, he promises himself, just to touch, to see if they're as hot and swollen as they were a moment ago), and just barely makes skin contact before he comes all over Stiles' restless thigh.

"Did you just,” Stiles says, and the rest is an inarticulate noise as he spills down Derek's throat.

~~

Derek likes where he is, curled up with his head on Stiles' stomach, Stiles' restless fingers petting through his air. The bed smells like them, and a little like Raptor still.

Before he can think better of it, Derek chuckles. Stiles tweaks his ear. “What's so funny, fuzzbutt?”

"You're great at names,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of which, did we ever find out what the little screaming machine was actually named?”

"Robert,” Stiles says without a pause. “See? I was close.”

His hand stills in Derek's hair, and he smells a little sour, momentarily, like regret.

Derek waits until his hearbeat finishes settling down before he lets out a breath and says, “It is kind of quiet without him.” He looks up at Stiles.

"Mmm.” Stiles' eyes grow darker. He bites his lip. “So how about we make some noise?”

Derek has to bite back startled laughter. “I guess,” he says, as deadpan as he can make himself.

Stiles, obviously, does not buy that for a minute. He grins at Derek, unashamed and delighted, flips them over and plants a kiss against Derek's nose.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [theragnarokd](http://theragnarokd.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi! Also, I kind of wish this story involved mpreg, since then I could've called it "Milk, Eggs, Bred".


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